Atlantis: Gate (21 page)

“Noonan? I thought you said you saw him die?”

“I did say it and I did see it,” Earhart said. “But he arrived here alive—seriously injured and sick—but alive. His message was that we had to get some Valkyrie armor. And that someone would come with—” she pointed—“a Naga staff to help us do that.”

“Are you sure he died?”

“A kraken punched a tentacle through his chest,” Earhart said. “There’s no evidence of a wound at all on the man here.”

“You don’t think its Noonan?”

“No, it’s him.”

“How can that be?”

“I thought you might tell me.”

Dane didn’t have a clue. “You said there were a couple of things?”

“We also just rescued a couple of castaways—they appear to be from the US Navy, from around your time probably.”

Dane nodded. “We just lost one of the submarines near the Devil’s Sea gate.” As Earhart led the way back toward her camp, Dane filled her in on everything else that had happened since he’d left her and returned to his own world and time. Behind them, Rachel slowly circled, then sprinted off toward the dozen portals visible.

THE PRESENT

Some places on the planet’s surface were less stable than others. When the core shifted a second, more powerful, time, several of these gave way. The most significant was in the Rift Valley in Africa, the longest continuous land crack on the surface of the planet. Along the six thousand, seven hundred kilometer length of the Great Rift was the lowest land point in the world—the Afar Depression at 510 feet below sea level-- and along its flanks were some of the highest and largest volcanoes, including Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa.

From the north, the Rift starts in southern Turkey, running from there to Syria, then splitting Israel from Jordan with the Dead Sea, then along the full length of the Gulf of Aqaba and Red Sea, where it splits going both north and south. The northern branch runs along the Gulf of Aden to the Indian Ocean, separating the Arabian plate from the Indo-Australian plate.

Southwards, it cleaved the eastern half of Africa, forming the Galla Lakes of Ethiopia, into Kenya, where it cut through a place called Kino Sogo, a vast plain of lava sheets that the Rift was tearing apart. From there it continued producing Lake Turkana, then into land so barren no one lived there, which was fortunate given what was coming.

Given fossil discoveries such as that in the Olduvai Gorge, it was widely suspected that human-kind originated in the Rift. As the crystal moved for a second time, it appeared as if it would as be the beginning of the end of mankind.

As the inner Earth shifted below, the entire right side of the Rift Valley, which represented the western edge of the Somali African tectonic plate, dropped a quarter mile in less than fifteen seconds. The drop was destructive enough for those living in those countries from the eastern half of Mozambique to Ethiopia, killing almost a million people straight out as the Earth buckled and spasmed.

Worse followed. The drop put the majority of the land below sea level. The Indian Ocean poured in, creating a thousand mile long waterfall, the likes of which the planet hadn’t seen since the Mediterranean Basin opened to the Atlantic Ocean and began to fill.

Millions more died as the wall of water over eight hundred feet high roared forward, destroying and submerging everything in its path until it smashed up against the mountains forming the left side of the Rift Valley and were now the east coast of Africa.

A tidal wave, nothing compared to the incoming one, headed back out to sea after the collision. It devastated Madagascar, swept over the Seychelles, and deaths would be recorded as far away as India and Australia.

The face of the Earth had been changed in less than a few minutes time.

CHAPTER 14 480 BC

Leonidas stared across the narrow straight that was the only opening from the open sea to the Gulf of Corinth. He was on the walls of the city of Rhion and he could clearly see the walls of Antirhon across the way. Dawn was coming from the right, the rays glinting off the small waves that danced on the surface of the water. On the near shore, the sailors of Rhion were preparing their ships to ferry their troops and the Spartans across. Antirhon was not a sea power, for which Leonidas was grateful as the crossing would not be opposed.

He felt loose. He’d been up for several hours already and Xarxon had spent a considerable amount of time working the muscles, rubbing oil into the skin, loosening scar tissue. Leonidas’s armor was shined to a mirror finish and his weapons sharpened.

He could see that the city proper was set back about a mile from the coast line. Several docks and warehouses lined the shore, then behind them a long sloping plain led up to the walls of the city. That was where he wanted the battle to take place, even though the enemy would have the high ground. It would be better than laying siege.

If he were the enemy commander—and this was something Leonidas had been taught in his agoge to do—he would choose neither the town or the plain to fight. He would mass his troops on the shore and take down the invaders as they de-shipped and before they could form ranks or mass strength. But there was no sign of the Antirhonians issuing forth and Leonidas’ advance party of Rangers—skiritai-- were already on the far shore, two hundred men strong, waiting in a thin red line that was his toehold. He’d sent them over under cover of darkness and they had landed un-opposed. How to draw the Antirhonians out of their city was the next issue. Leonidas smiled. There were ways.

“What makes you happy on this grim morning?” A woman’s voice startled him out of his tactical musings.

Cyra had her cloak wrapped tight around her body, her face lined and drawn.

“What is grim about this morning?” Leonidas gestures at the sun. “It looks to be a fine day.”

“There will be much death today.”

“Not ours, priestess, not ours.” He extended his hand toward the stairs off the wall. “Shall we?”

“Are you not afraid?” Cyra asked as they headed down.

Leonidas smiled once more. “Yes. I am afraid. Any man who does not feel fear before battle is not right in the head and a danger to his companions.”

“Then how can you smile?”

They passed through the city gate and walked toward the waiting boats. “From my first day in my agoge—training barracks—fear was something we worked with all the time. Worked is the wrong word—we lived with it. We Spartans have made a science of it—phobologia.”

“The key to it is not the mind but the muscles. You cannot change the mind’s reaction to the potential of death or being horribly wounded. Indeed, one would not want to, because that reaction brings forth the extra energy, the adrenaline, that gives a warrior superior strength.”

“The muscles, though, can be disciplined. And not in the way other armies train. Any fool can be taught to march in step and hack and slash. Before a boy in an agoge is allowed to touch a sword, he is first taught to control the fear muscles.”

Cyra was interested despite herself. They reached the docks and Leonidas led the way to one of the boats. She waited until they were on board and the boat cast off, before asking: “The fear muscles?”

Leonidas’s right hand was like the strike of a snake, smacking her lightly on the left side of her face before she had a chance to move back. When he did it a second time, she stepped back in shock and anger. “Why did you do that?”

“To show you the two types of muscles—fighting muscles and fear. Your fighting muscles made you step back. Your fear muscles made your face react. Tell me. What part of the body do you protect most instinctively?”

Cyra wasn’t certain whether to be angry at being struck or to be impressed that he was talking so much to her. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t the Oracle teach you anything worthwhile?” Leonidas tapped his right eye. “The eyes. Think how quickly we can blink if something comes at our eyes? The lids are shut before we are even aware there is a threat.” He drew his dagger and extended it to her, handle first. “Take it.”

Reluctantly, Cyra did so and held it in her hand.

“Strike at my eyes,” Leonidas said, “but do not actually touch me. After all, I have a battle to fight soon.”

“I don’t—“”

“Do it!”

Cyra jabbed, point toward his eyes and was amazed to see he didn’t blink. She handed the dagger back to him. “How did you do that?”

“Many, many hours and days and years of learning the discipline of the body. Of the fear muscles. I was hit many times around my eyes for many years before I learned the control of these muscles. And once I learned those, I was taught the others in the body until I could achieve aphobia.”

“Fearlessness,” Cyra translated. They were halfway across the strait and Cyra could see the lead ships were already landing, scarlet-cloaked Spartans scrambling ashore, forming in ranks.

“Not exactly. As I told you, I am afraid.”

Cyra was surprised that Leonidas made no attempt to keep his voice down or showed any concern that the nearby warriors heard him.

“What I control,” the king continued, “is my reaction to the fear. I don’t react to it.”

“And that is what makes the Spartans the greatest warriors in Greece?”

“In the world. Partly. There are other important factors, but I am afraid I do not have time to discuss them right now.” The keel of the boat hit the bottom with a grating sound and men began jumping off. “Watch and learn,” Leonidas said as he moved forward.

Leonidas yelled orders as he passed through the troops. He halted at the front, looking up the slope at the city. He could see the helmets of soldiers lining the walls but the gates were still shut.

As the rest of the Spartan army landed, the docks and warehouses were put to the torch. Parties of skiritai ranged out around the city and lines of smoke began to dot the air as they burned farms and houses.

The rest of the Spartan army arrayed itself in formation. And waited as the sun rose along with the smoke.

Cyra stood near the water, behind the army. She could sense the collective desperation rising from the walled city. Thousands of people watching their livelihoods being destroyed. Their homes in flames.

Cyra felt despair. Most of those inside the walls had no idea why this had happened. The Spartans were here only on the possibility that the Persians might swing their fleet wide and pass through the strait behind her and threaten the Spartan homeland. She wondered if a person counted for anything.

She was surprised to hear chatter and laughter among the Spartan ranks. Although their formations were perfectly aligned, the men were at ease. She could sense the fear among them, but at nowhere near the level she would have expected given the numbers involved. She noted that Leonidas was walking to and fro, stopping every now and then to talk to someone.

The chatter paused as the gates to the city opened and soldiers began filing out. Leonidas’s ploy had worked and the Antirhonians were coming out to challenge the Spartan army. While the Spartans had aligned in less than ten minutes after the last troop was ashore, it took their foe almost an hour and much yelling and hands on positioning by officers.

To Cyra’s unpracticed eye it appeared that the Spartans were outnumbered at least three to one. But even she could tell the difference between the two armies. The Spartans were silent now, their ranks perfectly aligned so that when she looked down a line, not only were the men shoulder to shoulder, their spear points appeared as one. The spear points in the Antirhonian ranks on the other hand, trembled and shivered as if a stiff breeze were blowing among them.

Some among the enemy ranks began slamming the butts of their spears into the ground and smacking the wood haft against their shields. The racket increased, men yelling curses at the Spartans now. Still the red-cloaked lines remained deathly still and quiet.

An officer moved to the front of the enemy lines. He had a high purple plume on the top of his helmet and the edges of the helmet were rimmed with gold. He was pumping his arm and trying to yell an order that went unheard among the blustering racket of his troops. Some of the men saw him and began moving, producing a very uneven start to the Antirhonian advance.

Still the Spartans remained still.

The enemy commander had his spear held parallel to the ground, dashing from side to side in a most undignified manner, trying to align his battalions. Looking at the Spartan lines, Cyra saw that Leonidas was now out front of his formations, leaning on his spear, watching the approaching enemy as if viewing a harmless parade.

Cyra frowned as she noted that the Antirhonian line was sliding to the right and also becoming more uneven. Then she realized the rightward movement was an unconscious attempt by almost every man to get closer to the protection of the shield of the man to his right. The more brave—or foolhardy, Cyra thought—were moving to the front, while others held back slightly. She saw officers in the rear of the Antirhonian lines with swords drawn, smacking men back into line. She even saw one man cut down as he broke ranks and tried to flee. The ground was trembling at the approach of so many armored men. Their cries were louder, and, if her ears heard rightly, more desperate than threatening.

Still the Spartan main body remained still and quiet.

Leonidas made a gesture and Cyra saw several companies of skiritai begin moving on the flanks, swinging wide to get around the advancing enemy. The bravest of the Antirhonian troops were less than a quarter mile away. Cyra could see the sweat on the men’s face as they labored to advance against the dual hindrances of their fear and their heavy armor, which, unlike the Spartans, they weren’t used to wearing.

Leonidas gestured for a second time, lifting his spear up high so the point was toward the heavens. A ripple ran through the Spartan lines. Cyra felt her heart beat quicker. Slowly, very slowly, Leonidas brought the spear down. She noted that the left foot of every Spartan was lifting at the same pace the spear lowered. When the King’s arm locked into place level and pointing at the enemy, the entire Spartan main body took a step forward, their heavy oxide battle sandals slapping the ground at the exact same time. The army was moving in rhythm, the cadence having been pounded into each man since his first day in the agoge. Sixty steps a minute, a slow march.